I fell in love today. With a Frenchie named Poirot. Not Poirot, the detective (though he was named after him). But Poirot, the gloriously gorgeous, insanely huge, absolutely breathtaking, Australian-bred French Standard Poodle.
I’ve had a thing for poodles ever since I met the daintiest white Standard Poodle named Zsa Zsa (I will steal that name one day, I’m sure of it). I was in obedience class with my Doberman, Krieger, a dog that came into my life for about six months between my other two Dobie loves, Ruger and Kanon. Like Ruger, I adopted Krieger, and knew very little about him. Unlike Ruger, Krieger, as sweet as he was to people, was vehemently anti-animal. He had no social skills and was a bolter. So we found ourselves in obedience class near Mademoiselle Zsa Zsa, and my heart melted instantly. It’s too bad I couldn’t spend more time with her. But I was afraid my dog would eat her.
Back to Poirot. He was not only outstanding in appearance, but just the calmest, loveliest creature. I contemplated doing a runner with him, but I couldn’t exactly fit him in my purse. So I cuddled him, kissed him, cooed in his ear, and told him how beautiful he was. He charmed me. He captivated me. I was smitten.
And then, like all the beautiful males in the world, he left. Sigh.